


Rest

by Ribbonshalos



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Fluff, Injuires, One Shot, Pharah is just a little worried, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 02:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12644292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribbonshalos/pseuds/Ribbonshalos
Summary: “McCree?” She says, staining against Mercy’s firm touch pushing her back against the seat. “Is he injured?”“Yes,” Tracer answers, her voice far up in the cockpit but reaching her clearly. “An arm and leg wound, but Lucio is helping them all, love.”





	Rest

**Author's Note:**

> McPharah Week — Day 1: Reunion  
> This ship is so small but I love it to death! Enjoy!

Both missions went wrong.

On the airship, the news of how the other team did is delivered. Lucio, D.va, Genji and McCree are on the other ship, but the brief message they receive is just as bad as their own reports. Pharah only listens to D.va’s voice on the comlink, attempting to detect any hint of shock or fear. Mercy is talking to her, but she’s barely paying attention when the comlink falls silent. A hole in her armor lets blood stain the blue covering her, but she only demands answers from Tracer.

“McCree?” She says, staining against Mercy’s firm touch pushing her back against the seat. “Is he injured?”

“Yes,” she answers, her voice far up in the cockpit but reaching her clearly. “An arm and leg wound, but Lucio is helping them all, love.”

Pharah’s left side is a blazing with the bullet that finally pierce through her suit. She barely kept her altitude when she was hit, but made it back to Mercy in time for the doctor to stabilize her.

“The Watchpoint is ten minutes out,” Tracer announces.

“Tell Zenyatta we’ll need his help in the med bay,” Mercy orders, and Tracer chirps this through the headset.

“Stay still,” Mercy’s hand pushes her back against the seat again. “I need to clean the wound.”

“How far out is McCree?” Pharah demands again, doing her best to stop moving but almost unable to restraint herself from peeking at Tracer’s expression. She could never hide bad news.

“They’re right behind us.” She says as turbulence shakes the airship for a moment. It jostles Pharah’s side, making her bite back a groan as her vision darkens for a moment. Ache blooms in her heart, but not from the wound in her torso.

“Fareeha, do not move or I will sedate you.” Peering through trembling eyelids, she knows better than to challenge Mercy when she is working. Forcibly settling her limbs and jarring thoughts, she lets the doctor do her job.

Ten minutes is a long time to think.

The airship touches down after an eternity, and Mercy is helping Pharah to her feet. Tracer zips past them to the other airship landing a few yards away. Hobbling along, she tries to slow down to see the hatch open up, to see McCree, but Mercy is telling her to move. The infirmary is where she needs to be right this minute.

The doctor takes her away but her thoughts still twirl around the one person in the airship.

“Settle down, McCree’s injuries aren’t as life threatening as yours.” Mercy gets her onto a patient bed. Removing the armor takes several moments, but Mercy is able to help her unsteady fingers until her torso is exposed. Blood soaks up the entirety of her black undershirt, and the entry hole is barely visible in the mess of flesh.

“Mercy, I just need to see Jesse.” She grabs Mercy’s arm before she can turn away, stopping the doctor with a strong grip.

Something else presses down her heart. A wild fear that shouldn’t be clouding her mind, but the blood loss and memories are surfacing. They’ve told her multiple times that he’s alive, but an almost animalistic part is clawing at her brain. Paranoia of what she’s lost and what she could lose blinds her vision.

“After I heal you, Fareeha,” her gentle voice relaxes her somewhat, and she lets go. Ashamed, but still desperate. “Jesse is okay, I promise.”

She only nods, watching the doorway for any sign of red or a cowboy hat. A voice talks to her, Mercy, but black begins to overwhelm her vision. Suffocating her brain, the last venom of fear seeps into her blood with the thought of unbearable news.

She can’t lose him.

* * *

Quiet greets her slowly opening eyes. The white room is foreign, and distorts her memory until it slams back down upon her.

Her hand reaches up, tugged back by IV’s and wires. More carefully this time, she feels down the front of her ruin shirt to her side. Blood still stains the cloth, but only a faint scar remains where the bullet hole was. Mercy’s work without a doubt.

It’s late, the dim lighting helps her eyesight but she can’t find a clock.

Where is McCree?

Sitting up, a head rush nearly makes her vision blacken before she focuses her breathing. Pain still echoes in her torso, making her breathless as she moves. Side effects that will disappear in a few days’ time from the rapid healing, but she’s had worst. Standing up and freeing herself from the equipment, she stumbles across the cold tile. The hallway doesn’t warn her of any approaching bodies, and she crosses the space as quickly as her healing body will let her.

The door is already open to the other medical room, and when she peeks inside, she sees a bed with a person resting in it.

She sighs quietly when the rough of his beard and his tousled hair surface in her sights. The familiar hat is on a stand nearby, and a tired smiles tugs at her lips.

Bandages cover his right arm, nearly across his shoulder, and lower left leg. Nothing serious, just like Mercy said. Pharah squeezes her hands into fists, silently making a note to apologize to her later. Her behavior was unacceptable, even in a tense situation like that.

Letting herself breath, she comes to his bed, sitting on the edge with slow cation. He shifts, breathing heavily for a moment before opening his eyes.

A curse in her native tongue leaves her mouth.

“Sorry, Jesse,” she murmurs, reaching out to stroke a lock of hair against his head. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She forgets how light of a sleeper he is, especially for a man that was in Blackwatch. They never truly rest, and those habits must still be carried within him.

“Fareeha,” he groans, finding her hand as he sits up. His eyes wander over her, and the small way her hand holds her side. “Fareeha, are ya okay? Mercy said she needed to use her staff on ya.”

His thumb strokes her knuckles, worried lines wrinkling his brow. “Ya need to rest.”

“I’m better than you are now,” she says, annoyed at once again being told what to do. “I wanted to make sure  _you_  were alright.”

A smile touches his lips, faint in the dim light but visible.

“Ya should know it’s hard to get rid of me.”

“Hmph.” She grumbles, shifting closer. “Scoot over.”

It takes a second for him to comply but once he does, the small bed squeaks under her added weight as she slips in against his side. His prosthetic arm wraps around her instinctively, minding her side as she rests her cheek against his shoulder.

They breathe together for a moment as she wraps her arm across his chest, hand hooked on his shoulder and careful of his wound. Smoke and pinewood settles her nerves as she breathes against his chest, listening to the tempo of his heart and lungs.

“It’s okay, darlin’,” he whispers. As hard as she tries, he seems to be the only one to see past her armor.

Her quiet breath filters a tired sigh. “It is now.”

A soft laugh rumbles against her.

“Doc is gonna kill us.”

“Most likely,” she agrees, but not seemingly that bothered by the rage that will follow from Mercy. Her only focus is him, and letting the fear in the back of her head slip away bit by bit.

This is their little reunion, and she will enjoy it.

“Get some rest, Fareeha,” he murmurs against her hair as the small bed holds both their weary bodies.


End file.
